The Christmas List: A Novel

Polk Avenue was a dead-end road in a poor section of Rose Park. The small street was lined with cars and Kier had to park a couple of blocks away on a street with run-down and boarded-up houses. He hoped his car would still be there when he got back.

The home of the other James Kier was a tiny, shake-tile-roofed rambler. A plastic Santa Claus with four reindeer perched precariously on the roof. Large, plastic candy canes wrapped with Christmas lights protruded from the snow in the front yard. The house was brown brick with tan and white striped aluminum awnings, surrounded by overgrown pyracantha bushes.

What surprised Kier most were the scores of people—children, teenagers, adults, and the elderly—cued along the walk outside the house, waiting to pay their respects. Kier took his place in the line.

As he waited, he observed three things about the other James Kier. First, the crowd of people who’d come to pay their respects was remarkably diverse in more than just age. The elderly couple behind him was distinguished, the man dressed in a Brioni suit and silk Gucci tie, the woman in a full-length fur coat. From their conversation, he deduced that they were there because the deceased had been kind to their mentally handicapped daughter, who had ridden his bus each day.

“He saved a seat for her next to him at the front of the bus,” the woman told someone behind her. “The other kids called it Rachel’s seat. Because he respected her they did too.”

In contrast, the young man standing in front of Kier might have been sixteen or seventeen and wore a long-sleeved T-shirt in spite of the cold. His hair was dyed black, and he had a pierced ear, pierced nose, and a tattoo of a snake on the back of his neck, partially concealed by dark woven necklaces. He carried a book under his arm; Kier couldn’t make out the title.

The second thing he observed was that the young people (and there were many) affectionately referred to the deceased Kier as Jak or Mr. Jimbo.

Third, no matter who they were, or where they were from, there was a palpable sense of loss.

Kier looked around in wonder. This guy was just a bus driver, he kept telling himself. The home’s interior was as humble as the outside. The carpet, wet from people moving in and out, was a well-worn avocado green shag. The entryway was decorated with Hummel statuary, plastic plants, and cheap prints of Cats in France, the kind of art that looked as if it had been purchased at either a garage sale or the clearance table of a Kmart. Above the front door was a hand-painted wooden sign that read All because two people fell in love.

It was about half an hour before he reached the living room where the Kier family stood in a receiving line. A plump, middle-aged woman with a beehive hairdo stood at the front of the line. It was apparent that she was the deceased Kier’s wife. The young man standing in front of Kier began to speak. He spoke softly and with a slight lisp likely exacerbated, Kier reasoned, by the stud that protruded from below his lip.

“Mrs. Kier, I wanted to tell you that . . .” The youth suddenly choked up. “Mr. Jimbo saved my life.”

She looked at him kindly and took his hand in hers. “Please, tell me about it.”

“It was a really bad day. My mom had just left us and I got yelled at by a teacher in front of everyone and then I got beaten up by some football players. Then they shoved me in a garbage can and rolled me through the school’s courtyard at lunchtime. I decided I was going to hang myself. As I was getting off the bus, Mr. Jimbo said, ‘Hold on there, sport.’ He asked me what was wrong. I said ‘nothing,’ but he looked at me like he knew everything. He said, ‘Life sucks sometimes, don’t it?’ I said, ‘Yeah.’ He said, ‘I know. Sometimes it don’t even seem worth living. But you know what, I’m just a bus driver. I’ll never be rich. People honk at me all day. No one wants to grow up and be me, but I’ve got some things worth living for. And so do you.’ I started to cry and Mr. Jimbo said, ‘You’re going to be a great man someday, one that everyone looks up to.’ I didn’t know what to say. But he did. He asked me if I like to read, I said, ‘Yeah mostly fantasy and Sci fi.’ He said, ‘me too.’ Then he gave me the book he was reading. It was The Hobbit. He said he thought I would like it.

“From then on we talked every day and we ended up reading the whole Lord of the Rings trilogy together. It took us the whole school year. He got me through it.” The teenager wiped his eyes.

“So you’re Steffan,” Mrs. Kier said with a warm smile. “Jim told me so much about you.”

The youth said, “I’m here because of him, ma’am.”

“Thanks for sharing that with me. We’re both going to miss him, aren’t we?”

“Sure are, ma’am.” He held out the book he carried. “This was his. We had some good talks about it. I’m bringing it back.”

She held it close; it was Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. “This was one of Jim’s favorite books,” she said. She handed it back to him. “You keep it. I know that’s what he’d want.”

The youth teared up. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll put it someplace really important. God bless you.”

“God bless you, Steffan.”

The teenager moved along, wiping his eyes on his shirtsleeve. The woman looked at Kier, then put out her hand. “I’m Martha Kier.”

“I’m James.”

“Pleased to meet you, James.”

“My condolences for your loss.”

“Thank you. Jim was one of the good ones God sent to this earth.”

Kier suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. “There are a lot of people here.”

“He was a simple man, but he touched a lot of lives.”

“Well, I’m truly sorry for your loss. Your husband is going to be missed. The world’s a little darker place for losing him.”

“Thank you for coming.”

Kier moved on down the line. The other James had three children, two girls who looked like they were in high school, (even though one of them was married) and a young man about Jimmy’s age. He was tall and lanky, with spiky brown hair. He was wearing a navy pin-striped suit that looked too large for him. He stood next to a beautiful young woman who Kier guessed to be his wife. The young man reached out his hand as Kier approached. “I’m Danny.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“How did you know my father?”

Kier struggled with an answer. “The truth is, I didn’t know him all that well. We just crossed paths.”

“He was that way, wasn’t he? The moment you met him you felt like he was a friend. He was everyone’s friend.” The young man teared up and his wife put her arm around him. “He was my best friend. I’m lucky to have had him as a father.”

Kier looked at him a moment, then said, “More than you know. God bless you.”

“Thank you.”

Kier walked outside. Even though it was past noon, people were still arriving and the line was even longer than when he had arrived. Just a bus driver. When he got back to his car he called Linda.